|
Airiños, airiños aires,
airiños da miña terra;
airiños, airiños aires,
airiños, levaime a ela.
Sin ela vivir non podo,
non podo vivir sin ela,
que adonde queira que vaia
cróbeme unha sombra espesa.
Cróbeme unha espesa nube
tal preñada de tormentas,
tal de soidás preñada,
que a miña vida envenena.
Levaime, levaime, airiños,
como unha folliña seca,
que seca tamén me puxo
a callentura que queima.
¡Ai!, si non me levás pronto,
airiños da miña terra,
si non me levás, airiños,
quisais xa non me conesan,
que a frebe que de min come
vaime consumindo lenta
e no meu corazonciño
tamén traidora se ceiba.
Fun noutro tempo encarnada
como a color da sireixa,
son hoxe descolorida
como os cirios das igrexas,
cal si unha meiga chuchona
a miña sangre bebera.
Voume quedando muchiña
como unha rosa que inverna,
voume sin forzas quedando,
voume quedando morena
cal unha mouriña moura,
filla de moura ralea.
Levaime, levaime, airiños,
levaime a donde me esperan
unha nai que por min chora,
un pai que sin min n'alenta,
un irmán por quen daría
a sangre das miñas venas
e un amoriño a quen alma
e vida lle prometera.
Si pronto non me levades,
¡ai!, morrerei de tristeza,
soia nunha terra estraña
donde estraña me alomean,
donde todo canto miro
todo me dice: «¡Extranxeira!».
¡Ai, miña probe casiña!
¡Ai, miña vaca vermella!
Años que balás nos montes,
pombas que arrulás nas eiras,
mozos que atruxás bailando,
redobre das castañetas,
xas-co-rras-chás das cunchiñas,
xurre-xurre das pandeiras,
tambor do tamborileiro,
gaitiña, gaita gallega,
xa non me alegras dicindo:
«¡Muiñeira, muiñeira!».
¡Ai, quen fora paxariño
de leves alas lixeiras!
¡Ai, con que prisa voara,
toliña de tan contenta,
para cantar a alborada
nos campos da miña terra!
Agora mesmo partira,
partira como unha frecha,
sin medo ás sombras da noite,
sin medo da noite negra;
e que chovera ou ventara,
e que ventara ou chovera,
voaría e voaría
hastra que alcansase a vela.
Pero non son paxariño
e irei morrendo de pena,
xa en lágrimas convertida,
xa en sospiriños desfeita.
Doces galleguiños aires,
quitadoiriños de penas,
encantadores das auguas,
amantes das arboredas,
música das verdes canas
do millo das nosas veigas,
alegres compañeiriños,
run-run de tódalas festas,
levaime nas vosas alas
como unha folliña seca.
Non permitás que aquí morra,
airiños da miña terra,
que aínda penso que de morta
hei de sospirar por ela.
Aínda penso, airiños aires,
que dimpois que morta sea,
e aló polo camposanto,
donde enterrada me teñan
pasés na calada noite
runxindo antre a folla seca,
ou murmuxando medrosos
antre as brancas calaveras,
inda dimpois de mortiña,
airiños da miña terra,
heivos de berrar: «¡Airiños,
airiños, levaime a ela!».
|
Breezes, sweet airy winds,
Breezes of my homeland;
Breezes, sweet airy winds,
Breezes, take me home.
Without her I can not live,
I can not live without her,
For go where I may
A thick shadow hovers over me.
Over me hovers a thick cloud
So pregnant with storms,
So with yearnings pregnant,
That it poisons my life.
Carry me away, breezes, carry me,
Like a poor dry leaf,
For dried up too left me
The fever that burns.
Aye! If you don't carry me away soon,
Breezes of my homeland,
If you don't carry me away, breezes,
Perhaps they won't recognize me,
For the fever that feeds off me
Keeps consuming me slowly
And treacherous harries
My poor heart also.
I was upon another time carmine
As the cherry's colour;
I am today discolored
As the churches' candles,
As if a bloodsucking witch
Had imbibed my blood.
I am withering away alas!
Like a rose in wintertime,
I am losing my strength daily,
I am turning dark-skinned
Like a tan, pretty Moorish woman,
Daughter of Moorish lineage.
Carry me away, breezes, carry me,
Carry me to where wait for me
A mother who weeps for me,
A father who struggles without me,
A brother for whom I'd give
The blood of my veins
And a truelove to whom I vowed
Life and soul.
If you don't carry me away soon
Aye! I will die of sadness,
Alone in a strange land
Where they call me a stranger,
Where everything I gaze upon—
Everything—says to me, "Foreigner!"
Ah, my poor dear house!
Ah, my golden-red cow!
Lambs that bleat in the highlands,
Turtle doves that purr in the fields,
Lads who yell-yodel dancing,
Roll of the castanets,
Shas-caw-russ-chas of the seashells,
Shur-ray shur-ray of the tambourines,
Drum of the drummer,
Dear bagpipe, Galician bagpipe,
You no longer gladden me saying:
"Jig! Jig!"
Ah, who were a little bird
Of slim, nimble wings!
Ah, with what haste I would fly,
Delirious from so much joy,
To sing the morning song
On my homeland's meadows!
This very instant I'd part,
I'd part like an arrow,
Without fear of the night's shadows,
Without fear of the black night;
And whether it rained or blew hard,
And whether it blew hard or rained,
I would fly and fly
Until she came into view.
But I am not a small bird
And I'll be dying slowly of sorrow,
Anon in tears transmuted,
Anon in sad sighs dissolved.
Sweet Galician winds that I love,
Cherished healers of heartbreaks,
Enchanters of the waters,
Lovers of the coppices,
Music of the green stalks
Of corn in our valleys,
Merry mates,
Roon-roon of every celebration,
Carry me away on your wings
Like a poor dry leaf.
Do not let me die here,
Breezes of my homeland,
For I even think that when I'm dead
I shall pine for her.
I even think, sweet airy winds,
That after I am dead,
And over there at the graveyard
Where they will have interred me
You pass by in the silent night,
Clattering among the dry leaves
Or whispering fearful
Among the white skulls,
Even after I pass away sadly,
Breezes of my homeland,
I shall cry out to you: "Breezes,
Breezes, take me home!"
|